


Dirty and True

by moodymarshmallow



Series: We Wouldn't Be Elves, Otherwise. [5]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Oral Sex, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 04:30:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/426928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodymarshmallow/pseuds/moodymarshmallow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A more explicit look into Theron's stream of consciousness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty and True

Lately, my desires run deep. I am not myself, or, perhaps, I am very much myself, when I catch Emanuel looking at me, and there is this throbbing inside of me that desperately wants to throw away nearly thirty years of privacy. I have been close to it, feeling undisciplined, shoving him against walls in alleyways and dark corners, and sucking his tongue and his neck instead of I really want until I come to my senses. I apologized for that once and he bit down on my lower lip, his eyes terribly wicked. I have been wanted before, but not like this.   
  
When we do get the time and the space, he is all questions. He asks me what I like best, and doesn’t take “you” for an answer. He pleads until I tell him something new, like how I like the base of my spine rubbed, or my forearms stroked, or his teeth on my shoulder or his nails on my thighs. Then he studies me like an artifact, slow and thorough. There is no inch of my skin that he has not found with seeking hands or insistent lips. Not that I can claim to be any different when it comes to him. I am quieter about it, which is true for a lot of things, but I have explored him like a talented scout.   
  
I always start with his hands, which I adore not just for his long, soft, and mobile fingers, but for his palms and wrists as well. I could lavish attention on them for hours, sucking on his fingers, nibbling the firm flesh of the heel of his hand, mouthing his wrists and tasting that thin skin between forefinger and thumb.   
  
I think briefly about him and now I want him again, as though I’m wild, as if I have no control. But I don’t think about that; I think about where I’ll find him. I’m learning his patterns, and I find him immediately in that little storage closet full of books, sitting on a pile of them. It must be on my face because as soon as he sees me, he sticks a bookmark in his book and puts it aside. I close the door behind me, and he’s on me. He’s murmuring my name against my lips as he buries his hands in my hair, pressing me against the door I just shut.   
  
I push him against the wall opposite, shoving books out of my way so that I can drop to my knees in front of him, cupping him through his trousers and feeling that he too is already hard. So I unlace them, pull them down just enough to get to his small clothes, and put my mouth on him through them because I can’t wait.   
  
He’s saying my name as I lick him, bracing himself against the wall and tangling a hand in my hair a little harder than he needs to. He does everything a little harder than he needs to. I have this impressive bite mark on my inner thigh where he got vigorous, not that I mind. I mouth his cock through the material, moving lower, nuzzling at where his hip and groin meet while I slowly tug his smalls down in the front. Seeing him bare reminds me how much I like about him, and I pet the small window of taut stomach and scarred side that I can see while I touch him lightly with my tongue.   
  
I catch his gaze and his jaw has dropped, he’s red from the neck up and I know I’m surprising him. I don’t pounce him in closets or suck cock in dark corners; not until now, at least. I push that hand up his shirt, trying to reach a nipple and roll it under my fingers while I flick my tongue over the head of his cock. My other hand is between my legs; I’m shameless.   
  
He cries out when I take him into my mouth, making the most lovely little noises when I pinch and tug that nipple. I breathe slowly through my nose and take him deep, staring up at him, knowing how crazy that would drive me if I were on the other end of this. His hand is so tight in my hair that he’s hurting me. I like it. I tease him, I move slower than I need to, with long, languid strokes of my tongue. I’m coaxing him to thrust into my mouth, and it takes him a moment to finally realize that. But when he does, he doesn’t hold back. I can’t move my head and he’s shoving his cock deep, but I can relax and take him deeper, even as I thrust into my hand.   
  
It goes quickly. Spontaneity does not make for long-lasting encounters. There’s just a minute or two of his cock down my throat and his eyes on mine until my mouth is full of him, thick and salty. I don’t care. I wanted him and I got him, and it doesn’t matter if he didn’t touch me except to yank on my hair, I feel his satisfaction profoundly along side my own.   
  
Before I can stand to meet him, he drops to me, crushing my lips to his, whispering into my mouth how filthy I am with that same wicked, reverent tone of voice that he always uses with me. And in the afterglow I’m glad that I’m filthy, and that he’s wicked, and that we’re together in a storage closet full of books and thick air.   
  
This is what he does to me, and even though I am now sated, my desires still run deep.


End file.
